


Give Yourself Down

by woodironbone



Series: We Will Not Be Leashed [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Foot Massage, I'm Sorry, Iron Bull is a gentle dom, M/M, affirmation of self, being the Inquisitor is hard, boys talking about feelings, idk what to tag this, sometimes, these tags are really weird and boring, violence aganst Orlesian knick knacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/pseuds/woodironbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor has just drunk from the Well of Sorrows and he has a lot to process. Bull can see he needs someone to talk to -- or rant at. Spoilers through What Pride Had Wrought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Yourself Down

**Author's Note:**

> What Pride Had Wrought is a bizarre quest for me and my trashbaby elf. I have a lot of Thoughts about things that get said or not said, actions that are taken or not, and what my Inquisitor must feel about all of them. Not to mention how he feels about being constantly pigeonholed as the Herald for a religion he does not subscribe to!!! So this is a lot of headcanon garbage. I will probably write more about these two, and this Inquisitor in general, because he is my small possum child, and I have a problem. So this was like a warmup I guess. There will probably be smut next time.
> 
> I know Castor is about as far from a Dalish-sounding name as you can get but I do what I want, Thor.

Bull finds him pacing the length of his room, all of it on his sleeve like always—radiating frustration, hurt, and fuckin’ rage—all that shit he can’t show to the Commander, the Ambassador, or the Spymaster. The Inquisition can’t see its leader like this, and that is unraveling him slowly.

Castor snatches some fancy glass trinket—a gift from the Orlesian court, no doubt—and hurls it across the room, where it shatters at Bull’s feet. Only then does he realize he’s not alone, and he falters, his face falling, startled and embarrassed.

“Oh, Bull, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Bull raises a hand to stem the flow of excuses. “People are always surprised I can sneak up on them,” he says lightly, stepping over the broken glass and crossing the room. “It’s a pretty useful trick. One every good spy has to know.” He sets himself on the edge of the bed and looks over at the Inquisitor, so small and awkward, standing so far away—just like the first time they had sex, he reflects. “Look, Kadan, don’t bullshit me. Tell me what’s going on. Take it out on me, if you have to. That’s what I’m here for.”

Castor sighs and shifts his weight, making no moves toward or away from the bed. “I don’t want to take it out on you,” he says. “You’re _here_ for me. You listen to me.”

“So talk, and I’ll listen.” Bull gives him a little sideways smile. “But you know, it might feel good to snap at me sometimes. Get it out somewhere, to somebody who can take it. Who won’t turn on you at the end of it. Just saying.”

Castor looks at him for a few moments, studying, considering—he’s very curious, cautious, circumspect. He likes to know what he’s agreeing to and he likes to seem casual about it, but Bull knows better, he always does. Castor knows that too now, and he fusses sometimes over whether or not he should try to hide himself better. He’s doing that now, and it makes him stall.

“Who is it that doesn’t listen to you,” Bull prods after a moment.

That does the trick. Castor turns away with a frustrated growl and snaps, “ _Everyone_! Cullen, Cassandra, even Sera—fucking Mother Giselle.” He braces himself against the windows leading to his balcony, staring out, like he wants to escape. “They all just _decided_ that I’m their Herald. No matter what I say. How many times I deny that. I can’t make it go away. I don’t want to be the Herald of anything. I don’t _believe_ in their Maker. Why don’t they see that?”

Bull gets up slowly and steps over to him, not quite close enough to reach out and touch, but sort of sneaking up on the idea of it. “They know you don’t like it, boss,” he says. “You tell them often enough. That doesn’t matter. They’ll see what they want to see. Their minds are made up.”

“So I should, what, then?” Castor turns and stares up at him, seething quietly. “Just roll over and let them all win? I suppose I have, haven’t I. My clan would surely think so. That I let them mold me into… this. Their Dalish pet turned—leader of the free people, champion in a holy war. They kept giving me choices but the choices didn’t matter. They all decided for me what I was. Even when we saw proof. We _have_ proof that it wasn’t Andraste, it was circumstance. It made _sense_. You were there with me, when we met Justinia in the Fade, you saw!”

Bull’s shoulders twitch at that. Don’t remind him. But Castor is far from done, and Bull’s happy to let him rant: “I drank from the Well because I wanted to believe that there was something left. Solas, Abelas—I’m not ‘elf’ enough for them, the Dalish are just children wandering blindly and spoiling everything. Either we’re too hostile, too proud, or we’re just foolish. Did you know I was First to my Keeper? I didn’t want to be. I wanted so badly to just be on my own. Be my own person. I didn’t want anything to do with any of that. But I was the most talented, that’s what she said. ‘We are called to duty; we do not choose it.’ What a load of rubbish. And yet here I am. I got my wish. I won’t be Keeper. Instead I’ll just be… prophet to the Maker’s children and king of the new world, probably, if I keep this up.”

Bull keeps silent but he takes another step forward, close enough now to reach out and touch if it becomes necessary. How long has Castor kept all this inside, that it’s pouring out in this untidy flood? Why didn’t Bull press him before? Sure, he knew Castor needed distraction, that’s always what this has been about, but… he could have done more.

He could always have done more. Doesn’t do to dwell on that. This isn’t the moment for it.

“But when I drank, I… it…” Castor sags against the stone wall, looking now at the floor. “I can’t understand it. Morrigan was right, she was the better choice. It was selfish to take it for myself. Pride. I never wanted to be proud like my people, but it wasn’t the risk to her that made me do it, it was the thought that a human could _never_ be meant to have this knowledge. I’m Dalish, I’m a mage, I’ve studied, I’ve seen things and done things that no one has, and… I still couldn’t do it. I can’t make sense of any of it, it’s all just whispers in my head, and I’m terrified that this old god will take me over and burn down everything I’ve helped build, and my people will be more hated than ever, and the Inquisition will end in fire, and it will be my fault, and no one stopped me. You were there, Bull, why didn’t you _stop_ me?”

There it is. Bull reaches out now to lay a heavy hand on his narrow, bony shoulder. “I thought it was the right thing to do, Kadan,” he says. “I don’t trust Morrigan. I trust you.”

“You should have stopped me!” Castor snarls, turning around and lashing out. The strike is meaningless, not intended to hurt, just a weak, limp hand against his chest. Bull smirks and closes his free hand over Castor’s.

“If you wanna do some damage, boss, you’ll have to get out that fancy staff of yours,” he says. “You mages are all soft.”

“And we terrify you,” says Castor, digging deep, speaking through his teeth. “You, the Iron Bull, infamous mercenary, mighty warrior, cowed by demons and magic. And now I have all this… _stuff_ in my head. Doesn’t that frighten you? Don’t _I_ frighten you?”

“What do you want me to say, boss?” Bull keeps his hands where they are, holding Castor gently in place. “Yeah, that time we went in the Fade was messed up, and everything at the Temple was too. But I got to kill shit. We gave the Red Templars what was coming to ‘em. And you made a sacrifice for us, like you always do. Now _that_ frightens me. But you made a decision. That’s what you have to do. Make a lot of them. It’s rough. It’s not a job just anyone could handle. You’re doing better than most. Believe that.”

“How can I?” Castor pulls against his hands, and Bull releases him, lets him pull back, shrink against the wall, curling in on himself. “So many people depend on me, and who am I? Just somebody who happened to open the wrong door? Somebody who desperately doesn’t want to make a bigger mess than was already made? Because that is all I am. I’m just trying to keep up. I’m trying to play by the rules. Make them like me. Let them call me Herald or whatever they want, so long as it gives them hope. Let them put me on this impossible pedestal. Parade me around at court. I didn’t want this, Bull. I never wanted any of it.”

His voice finally goes out, and his knees buckle. Bull catches him before he hits the floor, ducking down swiftly to scoop him up and carry him back toward the bed. Castor makes a small, irritable noise of protest, but puts up no fight, allowing Bull to lay him down and start dutifully removing his shoes.

“I hate wearing shoes all the time,” he mutters. “Elves don’t wear shoes. We don’t need them.”

“Yeah, well, I hate wearing shirts, but Josephine still talks me into it from time to time,” says Bull. He rubs his thumbs slowly over Castor’s feet, and the tension subsides just a little—Castor deflates a bit more, spreading out. Encouraging.

“I’m sorry,” Castor murmurs, covering his face with his hands. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“ _Someone_ has to see you like this,” says Bull. “If you were on the ball all the time, that’d be crazy. You’re under a ridiculous amount of pressure. I don’t mind taking the brunt of it any more than I mind relieving what I can.”

“Mmnh,” Castor grunts, letting his hands fall back to his sides. He looks down at his feet. “You’re very good at that.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Do you know Morrigan and Solas explain Dalish myths to me sometimes, like I don’t know who Mythal or the Dread Wolf are?” Castor throws an arm over his eyes and lets out a weak laugh. “I just go along with it to make them feel better, I guess. I don’t know what else to say. Solas expects so much _more_ from me than anyone else does… and then he tells me I’ve impressed him. I don’t know what to say to that. I’m so very glad I’ve managed to please this unpleasable man by not being a very good example of a Dalish elf.”

“Solas is an insufferable prick,” says Bull. “Weirdly good mage and infuriatingly good at chess, but he sure does like to be right about stuff. You’ve heard him talking to me about the Qun. Offering consolation after I—well. It’s nice of him, I get his intentions are good, but… yeah. He has that way of just… making every nice thing he could say super condescending. Drives me nuts. He seems pretty wild about you, though.”

“He _yelled_ at me for drinking from the well,” murmurs Castor. “I thought of anyone he’d understand why I had to. He’s the one who called Morrigan a, a glutton. He wants the old ways preserved. Why’d he…”

“Because he cares about you, Kadan.” Bull finishes working on his feet and leans over, nudging his arm aside so their eyes can meet. “We all do. He does it in his insufferable prick way, but he’s worried about you.”

Castor pulls his eyes from Bull and stares at the wall for a while.

“Hey.” Bull settles down alongside him, curling around him. “Remember when we danced at the Winter Palace?”

That, at last, invokes a laugh. The laugh seems to catch Castor by surprise, but it’s genuine and joyful. “The look on their _faces_ ,” he says. “Well. Not so much, because of the masks. But all the gasping.”

“So much gasping,” says Bull. “And fainting. At least three people fainted. I like to think it was because they were imagining us going at it.”

“They were probably just trying to picture you,” says Castor, twisting back to look up at Bull, grinning. There’s that grin, that little shit attitude. “I know that’s what I did the first time I saw you.”

“You saw me fighting,” says Bull, matching the grin. “That’s a dance I’m better at. But yeah. I knew you were curious. Most everyone is. Josephine, Dorian, Cassandra, Blackwall, definitely Cullen… not Solas, though. Solas doesn’t give a shit. Or Vivienne. But that’s not surprising.”

“Sera asked me how I can still walk,” says Castor, and covers his mouth as if to stifle the snickering. “And then she regretted it. I almost wish I’d tried to explain it.”

“Through hard work and lots of concentration,” says Bull. “That’s what you should say the next time someone asks you.”

“I suppose that’s a reasonably good metaphor for ‘lots and lots of lubricant.’”

“Hey, don’t sell either of us short. It _does_ take hard work and concentration.” Bull hoists himself up so he can roll over on top of Castor, bearing down on him, just how he likes. “And it’s a better answer than saying we stick to other methods more than half the time.”

“Let them wonder, I say,” says Castor. “Makes me seem invincible. They like that. In reality I don’t think I can take that more than a couple times a month, if that.”

“And that’s fine with me,” says Bull. “You’re good enough with that mouth of yours—and remember how I said you were soft? Your hands have got to be the softest hands in Thedas.” He takes one of Castor’s hands in his own and kisses the palm gently. “Stupidly soft.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” says Castor dryly.

“That’s a good thing. Makes you who you are. Feels good, too.” Bull moves his attention to Castor’s neck, drawing his hands up above his head. Castor shifts beneath him, breathing a quiet, contented sigh.

“You don’t scare me,” whispers Bull against his neck. “You don’t belong to anyone’s god. You aren’t anything until you decide to be. I look at you and I just see you. Before you drank, and after. Now you’ve got some stuff in your head, just like you’ve got that thing on your hand, but it hasn’t changed who you are. And it hasn’t changed how much I trust you. How much _they_ trust you.”

Castor’s eyes are shut. His breathing is quicker. Bull has him now, but he doesn’t want him like this, not unless he’s come willingly. He pulls back and looks down at him, waits for him to open his eyes.

“Don’t stop,” Castor says quietly, gazing up at him.

“Tell me that you heard me,” says Bull.

Castor lies still for a moment, his hands still caught under Bull’s, gazing unbrokenly up at him.

“I am only myself,” he says. “Not anybody’s Herald, not Mythal’s servant. Not the singular representative of my people. I will always be me.”

“That’s my boss,” says Bull with a little smile, and bends back down to give him what he needs.


End file.
